Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           

           ‘Chrisenname?Ornat’ralname?’saidMr.Barkis.

           ‘Oh,it’snotherChristianname.HerChristiannameisClara.’

           ‘Isitthough?’saidMr.Barkis.

           Heseemedtofindanimmensefundofreflectioninthiscircumstance,andsatponderingandinwardlywhistlingforsometime.

           ‘Well!’heresumedatlength.‘Saysyou,“Peggotty!Barkisiswaitin’foraanswer.”Saysshe,perhaps,“Answertowhat?”Saysyou,“TowhatItoldyou.”“Whatisthat?”saysshe.“Barkisiswillin’,”saysyou.’

           ThisextremelyartfulsuggestionMr.Barkisaccompaniedwithanudgeofhiselbowthatgavemequiteastitchinmyside.Afterthat,heslouchedoverhishorseinhisusualmanner;andmadenootherreferencetothesubjectexcept,halfanhourafterwards,takingapieceofchalkfromhispocket,andwritingup,insidethetiltofthecart,‘ClaraPeggotty’apparentlyasaprivatememorandum.

           Ah,whatastrangefeelingitwastobegoinghomewhenitwasnothome,andtofindthateveryobjectIlookedat,remindedmeofthehappyoldhome,whichwaslikeadreamIcouldneverdreamagain!ThedayswhenmymotherandIandPeggottywereallinalltooneanother,andtherewasnoonetocomebetweenus,roseupbeforemesosorrowfullyontheroad,thatIamnotsureIwasgladtobetherenotsurebutthatIwouldratherhaveremainedaway,andforgottenitinSteerforth’scompany.

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